


Support Services

by Mousedm



Category: Diagnosis Murder
Genre: Drama, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-15
Updated: 2017-09-15
Packaged: 2018-12-30 03:14:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12099495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mousedm/pseuds/Mousedm
Summary: Steve needs some help coming to terms with a difficult experience.





	1. Psych Services

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: "Diagnosis Murder" and the characters in it are owned by CBS and Viacom and are merely being borrowed here for recreational, non-profit purposes.
> 
> Previously posted on Fanfic.net but they messed up my formatting!

Chapter 1

Ben Adams stretched luxuriously, working the kinks out of his back with an appreciative sigh. He took a fortifying swig of black coffee before pulling a folder towards him, reacquainting himself rapidly with the contents which he’d previously scrutinized at length. A quick glance at his watch showed him he had a few more minutes, and he leaned back in his chair, propping an ankle on his knee as he perused the pages.

Over the years, he’d become adept at prising a three-dimensional picture out of the cold facts contained in such reports, yet the man whose career was encapsulated on the paper in front of him remained an enigma. Commendations liberally besprinkled the pages, yet so did reprimands. Respect for authority and insubordination dwelt side by side. Some incidents indicated a reckless disregard for his own safety, yet there were also examples of obvious caution and common sense. His solve rate was exemplary, and he was a seasoned officer, yet his rank of lieutenant suggested enemies garnered along the way or perhaps a lack of ambition.

Ben added a few scribbled comments to his earlier notes, then turned back to the front of the file, contemplating the picture stapled to the inside cover. It was an official photograph, far from candid, yet it still revealed something of the personality of its subject. It was a handsome face, but not blandly so; there was character in its forceful planes and it conveyed an overall impression of strength and responsibility. This would not be a man who revealed his innermost secrets easily, especially to a stranger.

Another look at his watch informed Ben that he should expect his client at any minute. He stood up and walked towards the door, reaching it as a firm knock resounded from the other side. It appeared the man was punctual and not given to avoidance. Ben opened the door, keeping his smile welcoming but not overly effusive.

“Lieutenant, please come in and take a seat.”

There was a choice of seating available, a sofa, two comfortable armchairs and two more plain chairs, and Ben watched with interest to see which the officer would select. Some day, he thought whimsically, he’d publish an article profiling the psychological interpretation of each preference.

Without appreciable hesitation, Sloan made himself comfortable in an armchair, tending to confirm Ben’s initial impression of confidence and independence. The photograph did not adequately convey the physical presence of the man, his height and athletic build complementing the general air of solidity and competency Ben had already noted.

Ben seated himself in the other armchair, knowing his own choice was made in the hope of maintaining a relatively informal atmosphere. It was clear that the other man had no intention of breaking the ice, although he met the psychologist’s eyes steadily, so Ben eased them into conversation with a promising opening. 

“How’s your partner doing?” he asked, the topic relevant but unthreatening. 

“Her condition has been upgraded to fair.” Relief was evident even in the sparse words and, after a brief hesitation, the answer was expanded. “My...her doctor says she’s going to be fine.”

“That’s good to hear.”

For a minute there was silence, and Ben allowed it to stretch, hoping the other man would fill the void. He sensed no hostility, a reaction he was all too familiar with from officers receiving mandatory counseling, but neither did there seem to be a compulsion to discuss his experience, the other end of the emotional spectrum. Instead, there was an odd stillness that Ben’s instincts told him was not the tranquility of inner peace nor the calm before an imminent explosion, but was instead the coiled composure of a self-contained man who kept his emotions tightly in check. 

Ben had found that police officers were some of the hardest members of the population to counsel and were more hesitant than the average citizen to get help for emotional problems. Their job required extreme restraint under highly stressful circumstances, and they were trained to cope with traumatic situations by remaining detached from their feelings. Moreover, many officers believed that seeking help from a psychologist was a sign of weakness. Because of their roles, they mistrusted many things, and especially mistrusted mental health professionals.

Ben fell back on reciting the purpose of the counseling program, realising that he would have to probe carefully, feeling for a weak spot in the officer’s tightly constructed defenses. “You have been through an extremely stressful situation and the department now mandates this counseling session to assist you through this time. I don’t need to hear about what happened. I know you’ve gone through that with the investigators, but it’s important that you have the opportunity to talk about what you’re feeling and thinking.” 

Sloan stared back at him with an unreadable expression. “I’m not a rookie. I’ve been through the program before. This isn’t the first time I’ve shot someone.”

“It’s the first time you’ve shot a kid.” It was harsh, deliberately so, but he couldn’t allow the man to hide behind a shroud of normalcy.

For the first time, he saw a flicker of response in the officer’s eyes, though it was gone before he could identify it - anger, grief?

“That kid was fifteen years old, hopped up on PCP, armed with an automatic weapon and had just shot my partner.” Sloan spoke with steady tones, but there was an edge of defensiveness and pure tiredness behind the words as if he had spoken them more than once to convince himself as well as others.

“And you’ve been cleared by both the Weapons Review Board and the Grand Jury,” Ben agreed easily. “That must be a great relief, but how do you feel about it?”

For a moment there was no reply, and Ben thought the officer would choose not to answer the question, but, after shifting slightly in his chair, Sloan responded. “It was a tragedy,” he stated quietly. “It should never have happened, but I had no choice; my partner’s life was on the line.”

“And yours,” Ben pointed out, surprised by the omission.

“And mine,” the officer agreed, after a slight hesitation. 

He was saying the right words, but their measured delivery lacked conviction, and Ben couldn’t help but feel that the man was parroting the phrases necessary to finish the interview as quickly as possible. His eyes were distant and shadowed and told a different story.

Ben decided to change tacks and, with a disarming smile, injected a note of challenge into his next comment. “Lieutenant Sloan, I get the distinct impression you don’t want to be here.”

There was an answering spark of humour in the other man’s expression. “Well, I suppose that’s something else I have no choice about,” he deadpanned.

Ben was glad to see evidence that his sense of humour was still intact. “Does that bother you?” he asked, sensing this was a man who did not like to relinquish control.

“Knowing that you have to sign off on this interview before I can return to normal duties is not exactly conducive to an open exchange of confidences,” Sloan pointed out frankly. “I don’t like the idea that I have to jump through some psychological hoops to get my gun back.”

“You say you’re not a rookie, you’ve seen and experienced more than your fair share of violence. Studies suggest that between 20 and 30 percent of all police officers suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder at some point in their careers. Considering those statistics, don’t you think there’s some merit to a program such as this?”

Sloan was too seasoned a veteran to fall into the obvious trap and skirted round it deftly. “I think it is vital that the department provide psych services -- to anyone that needs them.”

“But you’d exempt yourself from that category?” Ben prodded.

“No, I think there could very well come a time when I need professional help, but now’s not it.” Steve met his gaze evenly.

“Well, this is SOP for a lethal-force situation, so don’t take it personally. And please remember: everything said in this room is confidential,” Ben assured him. 

“But the results are evident to all,” Sloan countered. “If I don’t pass muster, I’ll still be a member of the rubber-gun squad.”

Ben was familiar with the police slang for police officers who aren’t allowed to carry weapons and also knew the stigma that carried. 

“Are you concerned about your reputation in the department?”

That question surprised a snort of derision from his client. “Not at all. I’ve been the pariah of the department before and probably will be again before I’m finished.”

It was an assertion that Ben would not have believed from many people, but it explained certain discrepancies he’d noticed on the Lieutenant’s record. This was clearly a man not easily influenced by others’ opinions. He operated on his own beliefs of right and wrong, independent of such petty considerations as departmental politics, rank and promotion. Ben’s respect for this individual grew. The world of policing ensured exposure to the sleaziest and most violent elements of society, which inevitably created cynicism as part of the job, but this officer had not only retained some of his idealism, a testament to his strength of character, but was also willing to isolate himself from the camaraderie of his colleagues in the process. 

“So what is your chief concern?” Ben prompted.

“I just want to get back to work,” Steve stated simply.

The psychologist nodded. “It’s important to you - returning to the job.”

“Yes.” This time the answer was unequivocal.

“Why?” Ben asked with genuine curiosity. “You’ve been forced to take a life. You've almost been killed yourself, suffered terrible injuries and not just once. What is it that makes the job so important to you, it’s worth that cost?”

This time there was a trace of suspicion in the gaze, and the officer’s eyes narrowed as if the man suspected it was a trick question.

“It’s my job,” he answered, as if it was self-evident.

“People don’t risk their lives everyday for a job,” Ben remarked skeptically, trying to goad the other man into a fuller answer.

“Okay, so it’s more of a vocation. It’s what I do.” There was a finality to the answer, but Ben decided to push a little further.

“Some officers tell me that it’s more than a job, it’s who they are. Would you say that describes your feelings?”

“It’s a big part of who I am,” Sloan admitted. “But it doesn’t define me. I’ve walked away from it before and I could do it again, if necessary, without losing myself.”

It was an intriguing statement, and Ben found himself liking the big, forthright cop. 

“Do you have any qualms about carrying and maybe firing your gun again?” He was required to ask this question since it was the crux to continued employment. Many an officer froze when placed in a similar situation requiring the drawing of a weapon, endangering themselves and their partner.

Steve didn’t reply immediately, appearing at least to be giving the question the consideration it deserved, but his response, when it came, was definite. “No. A gun is a means to an end. I still need to protect my partner and innocent bystanders. That hasn’t changed.”

Every question Ben asked was receiving a satisfactory answer, but he couldn’t shake the suspicion that the officer was suffering from Post Shooting Trauma. He was the type who bottled up his feelings and so had no outlet for his emotions, making him a prime candidate for the disorder. It is the internalisation of stress which results in post-traumatic stress disorder.

“Have you suffered from nightmares since the incident?” he inquired.

Again, Ben caught a glimmer of reaction in the blue eyes opposite, and there was an appreciable delay before, with palpable reluctance, Sloan made the stark confession with characteristic honesty, “Yes.”

Ben left an inviting pause in the hopes that his client would continue exploring that topic, and eventually Sloan added, a touch defensively, “It goes with the territory. It’s nothing unusual.”

“That’s true,” Ben agreed amiably. “Dreams are often a reaction to stress. Would you characterise the contents of the dreams as typical, or do they center round the incident itself?”

Sloan shrugged. “By the time I’m awake, the details are gone; it’s just fuzzy.”

For the first time, Ben suspected that the officer wasn’t being entirely candid, and he debated internally on whether to call him on what he suspected was an evasion. He felt the two of them had established a good rapport, but also guessed that Sloan would not reveal anything too personal. He was a private individual not given to intimate confessions and, if pushed too far, he would withdraw, deflecting further attempts at probing. The psychologist decided to try one more question.

“Could you at least say if these were just nightmares or actual flashbacks?” 

Sloan’s facial expression tightened almost imperceptibly. His body language had been minimal throughout the session so this was the equivalent of an outburst, yet his focus appeared to be inward, as if he were replaying a scene only he could see. His head dipped slightly, and the hollows in his face seemed oddly accentuated as if caught in the lengthening shadows cast by the dying sun on a winter’s evening. Yet, when he looked up, his face was shuttered, all emotion leached out of his eyes, but his mouth twisted in a grim smile.

“I think I had a flashback to my last date, and that was definitely a nightmare.”

In Ben’s opinion, humour was a valid survival tool and an excellent defense mechanism, but this was an obvious avoidance technique from a man who was good at keeping things bottled up and hiding his pain.

“Lieutenant, did you know that for each officer killed in the line of duty, three others commit suicide, dozens develop heart disease and peptic ulcers, and three out of every four are divorced? These casualties of our own emotions are staggering.”

Sloan looked appropriately solemn at this recitation of the frailties of policemen, but then Ben again glimpsed a touch of irreverence in the Lieutenant’s eyes. 

“I’m not married,” he pointed out mildly. “And my friends tell me the lining of my stomach must be indestructible for me to eat what I do without repercussions.”

“No suicidal impulses either?” Ben kept the question light.

“God, no. I could never do that to my...No, none at all,” he insisted steadfastly.

Ben believed him. He knew that appearances could be deceptive, but there was something solid and dependable about the officer that instilled confidence, and he couldn’t imagine Sloan sinking to the depths of self-destruction.

Although he still had some reservations, Ben made his decision. “I don’t think you are a danger to yourself or to others, so I’ll sign off on your return to work.” 

If he hadn’t been attentive, he would have missed the odd change that flashed over the officer’s face, his eyes suddenly veiled, a muscle twitching in his jaw. It vanished quickly, leaving a perfunctory smile behind in its place, and Ben wondered if he’d imagined the response. He bent his head to make a notation in the file, trying to analyse what he’d seen. This was what Sloan had claimed he wanted, wasn’t it? Had he missed something important?

Ben had no time to deliberate on Sloan’s reaction. The Lieutenant stood up smoothly with a nod of gratitude. “I appreciate that. Thanks, Doc.”

“Wait a minute.”

Sloan paused guardedly.

“I may not think you’re a danger to anyone, but you’ve been through a traumatic experience and need help working through the stress that creates. I would hate to see you become a statistic of any kind. If you experience feelings of depression or alienation, please feel free to come back and see me again. However, I recognise the fact that I’m a stranger and you may not feel able to talk to me, so I have a recommendation. I can’t force you to take it, but I would strongly encourage you to do so. The department has a program of peer counseling. The officers in the program have all been involved in a shooting at one time or another. They get together and discuss problems, including dreams. These are people who know what you’re going through, and I think you’d find it therapeutic to talk about these things.”

Sloan nodded. “I’ll think about it.”

Ben didn’t need to be psychic to hear the unspoken corollary of, ‘when hell freezes over’, and recognised the unlikelihood of the officer acting on his advice.

“Lieutenant,” he urged quietly. “Everybody needs a support group.”

The officer turned back with an unexpected, but singularly sweet, smile. “Oh, I have a support group. It may be a bit unorthodox but, believe me, it’s there.”

The click of the door closing behind him punctuated the session with a firm period, and Ben was left in a room that suddenly seemed larger without the policeman’s commanding presence.

Thoughtfully, Ben retreated behind his desk, trying to sort through his impressions of his latest client. He drummed his pencil against the folder, breaking his own cardinal rule and second-guessing himself. Had he misjudged the man?

The false bravado that characterised so many of these interviews had been entirely lacking. Sloan’s stoic self-control was almost painful to watch and yet oddly reassuring. Ben truly believed the man was no imminent threat to himself, and certainly not to others, but what was the cumulative effect of stress on so restrained an individual? Too many officers used denial and avoidance, locking the nightmare images they dealt with on a daily basis in a tiny mental room and only taking them out when enough whisky had soaked their brains to allow them to handle it. He didn’t want to see Sloan slide down that dismal path. 

Slapping the desk in a rare moment of frustration, he stood up and strode to the window. It was a beautiful Friday, ablaze with radiant sunshine but with a cool breeze from the ocean keeping the temperature pleasant. He watched the palm trees swaying lightly in the wind as he pondered the Lieutenant’s future. It was a dismal consolation, but at least he would know if anything happened to Sloan. With a heavy sigh, he attempted to dismiss the officer from his mind and ready himself for his next client, conscious of a final hope that the man’s support system was as effective as he claimed.


	2. Family Services

Chapter 2

Steve bolted upright, the sheets unpleasantly damp and tangled constrictingly around him, and every muscle locked in violent rejection of the scene that had just played relentlessly through his mind’s eye. With a shudder of revulsion, he pushed the bedclothes away, drawing in deep breaths of air in an effort to calm his racing heart.

He felt more exhausted than he had before going to bed, as the vivid flashbacks siphoned away any benefits of the minimal amount of sleep he’d achieved. The nightmare loosened its grip but didn’t totally release him as the images continued to haunt him. 

It always started innocuously enough, walking along an unexceptional street, although there was an inexplicable feeling of dread lurking just below the surface. But, after the first burst of gunfire which took down Cheryl, all his perceptions warped confusingly, giving him the dubious privilege of reliving the incident not only in glorious Technicolor, but also in slow motion. Sound became distorted, the tumultuous pumping of his heart and rasp of his own breathing thundering in his ears, drowning out all ambient noise except the explosion of gunshots.

Light kaleidoscoped wildly from the glistening blood that pooled under Cheryl’s inert body, spreading too fast. As if enclosed in a tunnel, he could see nothing except that lurid glow and the bullets that spat out of the gun. He could watch the path of each individual piece of metal spiraling menacingly as they swarmed from the barrel of the gun. One flew past his shoulder with the buzz of an angry hornet, and another pinged off the concrete next to Cheryl’s head.

With everything moving so slowly, surely he could take effective action and disarm the gunman, yet he stood rooted to the spot. He knew he shouted a warning, but it was lost in the auditory confusion, then the bullet left his own gun and he watched it, agonisingly aware of every part of it’s violent discharge, witnessing it rip through the air in a haunting preview of its ultimate performance. Part of him wanted to take it back, to do anything to change the inevitable course of events, but another part, more firmly rooted in the moment, was terrified that the shooter would merely step out of the way of the sluggish projectile and continue the carnage.

Then it was over; the body lay crumpled on the ground, abruptly looking so helpless and small. In the whimsical way of dreams, Mark was suddenly there and Steve wanted to protest, ‘you weren’t there; it’s not real’, but he merely watched, frozen, as his father knelt beside the boy, shifting the child’s head gently upwards and checking his pulse, then turning to his son with a look of disgust and condemnation. In the sudden cessation of all other sound and movement, his father’s accusation reached him clearly, impacting cruelly with the same force as a bullet. “He’s dead. You murdered him.”

At that point, Steve always woke up, sweat pooling on the flat planes and hollows of his body, adrenaline still coursing. He wasn’t sure why his subconscious chose to add Mark to a scene he was grateful his father had never been forced to witness, but supposed it had something to do with his guilty conscience choosing to express itself in the most painful way possible, punishing him for his choice of actions.

At the scene, he’d been swamped by distracting responsibilities. He’d had to provide first aid to Cheryl, secure the crime scene and preserve the chain of evidence, notify the officials who arrived on the scene, turn over his gun, all the while maintaining the image of complete control which gave him no time to come to terms with the trauma of the situation.

The rational part of his mind knew that Mark would never be anything but supportive, but, except for reassuring his father as to his uninjured status while on a brief visit to check on his partner at the hospital, he’d been avoiding Mark since the incident. It wasn’t hard to do with the flurry of activities that followed an officer-involved shooting.

It was hardly surprising that he relived the horror of the incident every night, since he’d been forced to do so again and again during the day, telling the story unemotionally to his supervisors, homicide, internal affairs and special sections in the department. Now the focal point of a homicide investigation, the endless interrogations transformed him from an investigator to a suspect, and guilt blossomed under the endless stream of questions as he started to second-guess his own choices.

With a sigh, he levered himself off the bed, his body heavy and aching. He walked into the bathroom, turning on the shower to maximum, hoping the hot and stinging spray would offer more than a physical cleansing. He attempted to keep his mind blank, empty of all awareness, but it was surprisingly difficult to do, his emotions ready to ambush him whenever he relaxed his guard.

Toweling himself off roughly, he returned to the bedroom, noting wearily that it wasn’t even 5 o'clock. Feeling the need to escape the confining walls, he threw on some clothes and went outside. It was still dark, and the steady drizzle that cut visibility even further complemented his dismal mood. He vaguely contemplated a jog, knowing the exertion would help clear his mind, but he was unable to summon up the energy and seated himself on his log beside the sands dunes, gazing at the reflected light from the city playing on the waves. He’d always found the ocean soothing and really needed some of that tranquility now. His exhausted mind sank into a reverie lulled by the rhythmic swish of waves breaking on the beach, leaving him oblivious to the rain soaking through his clothes as the chill residing in his heart disguised the external cold. 

The chink of china alerted him to the fact that he wasn’t alone, and he twisted his head to see his father approaching, bearing two mugs of steaming liquid. With a murmur of thanks, he took the one proffered in clumsy, numb fingers and pulled it close. The delicious aroma of hot chocolate snaked up to his nostrils, and he inhaled gratefully. Mark sat beside him, close enough so their shoulders, knees and hips touched, his father’s warmth radiating to thaw his frozen extremities as simultaneously the gesture of support warmed his soul.

For a time, they sipped the fragrant beverage quietly.

“You’re up early,” Mark observed nonchalantly.

“I needed to clear my head,” Steve admitted.

“Is it working?”

Steve managed a smile at the gentle concern in his father’s voice. “Not really.”

“More bad dreams?” Mark asked in the same casual tone.

“Mmmm,” Steve agreed absently, before realising to what he’d just confessed. He turned sharply to stare at Mark. “What do you mean, ‘more’?”

Mark shrugged. “Educated guess?” he offered hopefully.

“You mean, I look like I’m a few fries short of a Happy Meal,” Steve teased, although there was a dry edge to his voice.

“Only to an expert like me,” Mark retorted affectionately. “Actually I would say more like a pickle short of a jar, a pepperoni short of a pizza, a few beers short of a six-pack, one tree short of a hammock, two chapters short of a novel...”

Steve shot him a withering glance, but Mark wasn’t a man to wither easily, and smiled back as he happily continued. “...Four cents short of a nickel, knitting with only one needle, dock doesn’t quite reach the water, only playing with 51 cards, several nuts short of a fruitcake, elevator doesn’t make it all the way to the top floor, the wheel’s spinning but the hamster’s dead...” 

A smile tugged reluctantly at the corner of Steve’s mouth, evolving slowly into a full-fledged grin as the babbling idiocy continued. It was the first time he’d smiled since the shooting, and it restored something of the feeling of humanity.

“...fell out of the family tree,” Mark continued.

“Not so very far out of the family tree,” Steve remarked pointedly. “I think my two genes short of a chromosome, I inherited from you.”

Mark laughed, relieved to feel his son relaxing slightly and, for a few minutes, they sat in companionable silence. Mark snuck the occasional glance out of the corner of his eye, dismayed at the bruised exhaustion in his son’s face and the darkness haunting his eyes. He’d hardly seen Steve since the shooting but that wasn’t too surprising. Impelled by concern from his son, he’d learnt by heart the procedure following a shooting, and knew that, because shootings by police may have enormous human consequences and put the department's integrity on the line, regulations call for every gunshot fired by an officer to undergo a rigorous, multilayered review. Once the internal investigations are complete, prosecutors at the U.S. attorney's office review the case and consider whether criminal law has been violated. Then, the department's three-member Use of Service Weapon Review Board examines the case file to see whether the shooting violated weapons-use regulations and warrants disciplinary action against the officer. Mark was deeply relieved that the process had exonerated his son, but it had clearly taken a terrible toll, both physically and mentally.

But even worst than the departmental procedures, in Mark’s opinion, had been the press coverage which had placed his son under the public microscope. The youthful age of the victim had caused the story to be sensationalised, and the press wrote articles that journeyed far from the facts of the case, adding cruel speculation to an already volatile case and leading Steve to be judged and found guilty by people who made their decisions without the true facts. Mark had the unhippocratic urge to find the journalists and forcefeed them their own newspapers as a new form of emetic.

It was clear that his son had suffered a dehumanising and traumatic ordeal and, although Mark would never say it to his face, he knew his son was as much a victim as the boy who’d lost his life. Although Steve was usually level-headed, his over-developed sense of responsibility, especially towards youngsters, meant he’d need help accepting his role in the tragedy, and Mark was determined to provide it. 

He took a deep breath. “Do you remember when you came back from Vietnam?”

He sensed he had piqued Steve’s interest, but his son continued to stare straight ahead at the waves, merely nodding in response. “You had flashbacks for quite a while after that. I got to know that look in your eye. Besides,” he added a bit sheepishly. “I was worried about you last night and came down to see how you were doing. You were in the middle of what seemed to be a doozy of a nightmare so...well, I sat with you for a bit - until you were sleeping normally again.”

The awkward confession, and the implicit love and support it offered, banished the last of Steve’s dream-induced doubts and demolished some of the barriers behind which he was shielding his emotions. Expressing his feelings had never come high on his list of duties or accomplishments, and part of him didn’t want to taint his father with the ugliness of his situation, but Mark had always been able to winkle his secrets out of him eventually, so it seemed easiest to submit without a fight.

“He was just a kid,” he murmured, his voice pained and tight. The dam had cracked, and Mark could sense the force of anguish behind the first trickle of admission.

Steve half-expected his father to trot out the same platitudes about the boy’s drugged and armed condition that he used to try to console himself, but Mark, as always, did the unexpected.

“That makes it harder,” he commented thoughtfully.

The odd response brought Steve’s head round to regard his father with a quizzical eye, as Mark continued gently but firmly.

“Steve, when you went out to work that day, it wasn’t with the intention to shoot someone. I know you never want to kill, it was a decision that you were forced to instantaneously make and that you have to live with forever. You became a police officer to protect people, that’s very important to you. Taking a life goes against everything you believe, especially since the life was so young, but you were placed in an impossible situation with one imperative to protect impossible to reconcile with another. Either way, you had no chance of winning and now you’re paying the price of that loss.”

Mark’s quiet words of common sense sank into Steve’s soul and started to unravel the tangled confusion that resided there.

Mark didn’t try to prompt him, but let his son find his own way through the morass of words in his head to the ones he wanted to say aloud.

“There had to be another way. I should have found a better way.” Steve’s closed fist thumping his knee emphasised the last anguished words.

“You had no alternative,” Mark insisted. “There was no time to wait for help, and he had no intention of surrendering. The truth is that the incident was over almost as soon as it began.”

Steve’s shoulders tensed slightly. “In my dreams,” he started hesitantly, but then broke off, uncomfortable discussing something so unsubstantial.

“Everything moves in slow motion,” Mark finished for him.

Steve stared at him in amazement. “How did you know that?”

“Time distortion is a common phenomenon of flashbacks,” Mark explained sympathetically. “But that’s not how it went down, Steve. The reality is that you had a split second to make that decision. I know you, son. You don’t panic under pressure. It’s common in life and death situations for an officer to empty his gun. You only fired one shot. You assessed the situation and acted appropriately to protect your partner, innocent bystanders and yourself. You didn’t have time to do things differently.”

Silence again rippled peacefully between them as Steve allowed this reassurance to soak deep inside. It was several minutes before the implications of Mark’s comments triggered an internal alarm, and he turned to his father with foreboding. “You know an amazing amount about this case.”

The pure innocence in Mark’s expression confirmed his suspicions. “There’s been a lot of talk about it... you know, in the press and things.”

“They got the facts almost entirely wrong and had me convicted as incompetent at best and a ruthless murderer at worst. I can’t see you getting your information from them. What did you do?”

Mark scratched his nose, reflectively. “I was worried about you, so I ...” He cleared his throat and looked sideways at his son to gauge the impact of his confession, which spilt out in a rush. “I went to Masters and asked to see the file.”

“Dad!”

The two-toned cry echoed the eternal embarrassment felt by offspring for over-protective parents throughout the ages. 

“He was actually very accommodating,” Mark offered vainly, in a conciliatory effort. 

Steve huffed a big sigh of exasperation, secretly touched by Mark’s willingness to go to such lengths and, although he’d never admit it, also relieved that he didn’t have to relive the experience one more time, even in an expurgated version.

“Well,” Mark said in a more aggrieved tone, “I wouldn’t have needed to go to Masters if I’d got the story from you, but I got the distinct impression that you were avoiding me.”

Since this accusation contained a large amount of truth, Steve was thrown on the defensive. “I was busy.”

“Mmmhmm,” Mark wasn’t going to allow him to wriggle away with that excuse, and a raised eyebrow expressed his friendly skepticism.

“I wasn’t really avoiding you, Dad. I just needed time to sort some things out in my mind.” He didn’t want to hurt his father’s feelings, and had no intention of ever explaining the starring role Mark had been playing in his dreams.

“I know,” Mark magnanimously forgave him, breathing a sigh of guilty relief at the successful diversion of attention from his own transgressions. He was sure there was more to Steve’s conspicuous absence in the last few days than his son was admitting, and he could hazard an approximate guess as to the reason, but he could sense Steve’s discomfort with the topic and abstained from forcing the issue at this point, sure it would surface again later.

Steve put down his empty mug and scooped up a handful of sand, allowing it to trickle through his fingers. “It was just so frustrating. The press had me pegged as the successor to Jack the Ripper, and the department was at first ready to serve me up on a platter, but, once I was cleared, suddenly I was told I was a hero and everybody wanted to pat me on the back and shake my hand. Neither was true, I wasn’t the villain, but I certainly wasn’t the hero. I failed to contain the situation and my partner nearly died. I just feel...angry.”

“Good,” Mark said approvingly. “Anger is actually a good way of relieving stress. You have a right to be angry.”

Another handful of sand trickled through a clenched fist, the words spilling out faster. “I’m angry at myself for not resolving the situation better. I’m angry at the kid for putting me in that situation, but most of all I’m angry at the people who make a profit for selling the junk he was high on and putting a gun in the hands of a fifteen-year-old. I think that’s why...” He broke off, reaching in his pocket for his badge and turning it around in his hands.

“I had my psyche eval today and passed. I’ll be going back to work on Monday.”

Mark turned to watch him, for once needing visual clues to gauge his son’s state of mind. “You don’t sound as happy about that as I would have expected,” he observed carefully.

The badge revolved a few more times. “The psychologist asked me why I was so eager to get back to work, and I couldn’t come up with a decent answer. I’m beginning to wonder if I’m a cop because I don’t know what else to do.”

“Steve, I think you could do anything you set your mind to, but you’re a cop because it’s what you love. I think it’s what you were born to do, it’s in your blood.”

“You’re a better detective than I am.” This was said entirely without rancor as Steve took nothing but pleasure in his father’s amazing mind.

“You’re wrong,” Mark stated firmly. “I can solve mysteries, I grant you that, but that doesn’t make me a cop. I could never deal with the day-to-day grind of being an officer, the general atmosphere of hostility you face, and I certainly wouldn’t fit into the hierarchical structure of the department. I’d be fired within hours! You are a natural protector, and people turn to you when they’re in trouble because they trust you.”

He held his hand out for the badge and, when Steve deposited it in his palm, he hefted it thoughtfully. “You know this thing only weighs a couple of ounces, but in reality, it’s too heavy for most people to carry. I don’t say this often enough but I’m very proud of you. You serve and protect with a sense of profound responsibility, not for any acclaim but because it’s the right thing to do.”

“Wouldn’t you be happier if I wasn’t a cop?” Steve addressed the question to the ocean. “I know you worry.”

Mark heaved an internal sigh. Worry didn’t even begin to describe the nightmares he’d lived through. Fear for his son’s safety was a mantle that had settled heavily upon his shoulders. He’d become habituated to its constant presence, and could frequently ignore its weight, but it never diminished. However, for Steve’s sake, he kept his tone light. “Hey, that’s in my job description. I’d do it whatever work you did. Anyway, I don’t want you to worry about me worrying, because then I’d have to worry about you worrying about me worrying and it’d all be downhill from there.”

Steve smiled obligingly at his father’s levity, but Mark could tell he wasn’t satisfied with the answer.

His son had bared his own emotions and Mark owed him honesty in return. “Steve, I’ll admit that I don’t want you to go back to work if your heart isn’t truly in it. I don’t want you second-guessing yourself in a critical situation. I need to know that if you ever face a similar dilemma, you’ll do whatever you have to to come home that evening.” His voice faltered. “I don't know what I'd do if I lost you. If I had to bury you too...” The thought was enough to close off his throat, swallowing the rest of the sentence. In lieu of words, in a rare demonstration of affection, he placed his arm around Steve’s shoulders.

As he regained his composure, Mark continued. “You did the right thing last week. You did what was necessary, as hard as it was, to protect yourself, your partner and those around you. Don’t doubt that.” 

Eventually, Mark felt a shudder ripple through Steve’s frame and he could almost see the guilt and regret start to fade into acceptance.

Never an insecure person, Steve hadn’t realised how much he’d needed his father’s absolution and validation. But now, for the first time in nearly a week, Steve no longer felt irrevocably tainted, tarred by the brush of murder. His whole being felt inexpressibly lighter, no longer weighed down by the twin anchors of self-disgust and guilt. It would take time to fully come to terms with the events of that day, and he’d never forget the role he’d been forced to play, but he could now start to believe he’d acted with the best information available at the time. He had to accept his own limitations; it wasn’t always possible to save everyone. Strangely enough, it was the burgeoning warmth inside that sparked the realisation that they were both cold and wet.

He jumped to his feet and nudged his father, who was still staring at the horizon, with his foot. “You know, if you’re waiting for the sun to rise you’re gawking at the wrong ocean.”

“You only just realised that?” Mark accepted the hand Steve extended to pull him to his feet. “As I said, one kernel short of a cob.”

“You’re right, if I hadn’t been a few beans short of chili, I would have talked to you before now.” It was an oblique thank you, but he knew Mark understood. He marveled at his father’s ability to put things back in perspective, to heal more than just the physical.

Mark’s eyes twinkled. “The old man still has his uses, huh?” He shook an admonishing finger playfully. “Next time don’t let your dreams tell you different.”

Steve stopped still in astonishment. Mark couldn’t possibly know...could he? He decided it was safest to ignore the latter part of his father’s speech and concentrate on his first assertion.

“I even told the psychologist how useful you are. Actually, I think I called you unorthodox or maybe the word I used was eccentric.” He pretended to think. “Maybe I just said you were crazy.”

“For that, you cook the bacon and eggs,” Mark retorted.

“Definitely crazy. You remember how I cook the bacon?”

“Sure. I’ve always believed the black bits around the edges add texture, nicely complementing the rubberiness of the eggs.”

“Is rubberiness a word?”

“It is if you’ve eaten your eggs.”

Steve slung his arm round his father affectionately, allowing their banter to ground him more firmly to normalcy. As they entered the Beach House, still teasing, Steve was conscious of a final thought - unorthodox his father might be, but he was certainly effective.


End file.
